It's a beautiful day in the neighbor"hood"...

At this moment there are two birds battling for nesting rights in the awning outside my bedroom. They are chirping and flapping their wings frantically, it is hilarious and heart-warmingly natural. This, as well as the sporadic patches of green grass and freshly bloomed daffodils sprouting in my yard, triggers my mental alarm that spring has once again sprung. I have noticed that people are ditching their heavy winter coats and gloves for windbreakers and a smile and realize that seemingly normal individuals are no longer driving or even walking but jubilantly skipping to nearby cafes and restaurants for workday lunches and breaks. Squirrels are frolicking, birds are chirping, and I… I am ready to lock my front door and not come back outside again until late fall. I know this might seem silly to some but those people do not live in “The Hood”. Now don’t get me wrong, not everyone in the hood feels the way I do, some hood-rats are just exploding with excitement! You see, in the hood there are two teams.

People on Team A are generally older couples who have lived in the hood since before it was “the hood” and have so many ties to their home and neighborhood that they would be lost anywhere else. Team A also has people who moved into the hood when they had no money or no other option and have successfully raised their children, built careers, and refuse to turn their backs on the place where they got their start. Team A takes care of their homes, tries to mind their own business (I mean within reason sometimes we just need to know things), and respect their neighbors. By and large, their yards are fenced and manicured. Their cars are sensible and affordable and they rarely have a Pit Bull tied to the front porch with a tow chain.

However, people on Team B drive tricked out old police cars (with the unattached searchlight still on the side). They can afford “spinner rims” but refuse to pay their $400 in fines which would get their driver’s licenses reinstated. They will splurge for $300 in fake hair and nails but won’t pay $29.99 for a proper car seat for their 2 year old, Man-Man. (Let me make myself clear before everyone gets their panties in a twist, that I am speaking of no ONE race. “The Hood” welcomes everybody! For example, at the end of my block there is a group of four or five flamboyantly gay teenage boys, who walk up and down the street from March to September, in skinny jeans, flip-flops, and Aunt Jemima head scarves – they are black, so I guess that doesn’t prove my point but it is still quite amusing!) Team B smokes pot at a kitchen table that has been moved to their front yard and plays the music in their car so loud that people for blocks around can sing-a-long.

Now, if there is any doubt in your mind, I assure you that I am on Team A (the team who goes into the spring and summer months kicking and screaming)… but my neighbors, well, they are on Team B (the team that celebrates the warmer months like every day is some Rastafarian version of Fat Tuesday, complete with the Beads for Boobs trade-off – except the Boobs are so saggy that the areolas resemble misshapen pancakes and the Beads are crack cocaine). You have to believe me, I would like nothing more than to enjoy my yard when the weather is nice, sit on a bench beside my birdbath and read a good book, but so far this year I have found 2 empty malt liquor bottles, a half a bag of Popeye’s Chicken bones, and (I shudder to tell you this) a used condom in my driveway. Does that make you want to go outside and play hopscotch and search for fairy rings? (For clarification that was not a jab at the aforementioned boys on my street, I don't mess with them. Those fellas are mean as hell! They ganged up and beat the crap out of a guy at the park who was apparently workin’ their last nerves! Miss Mae, our neighborhood gossip, said it looked like a posse of Little Richards bitch-slapping Mike Tyson.)

Despite my complaints (and I have many), I love my house, my yard, and even my neighborhood. There is a post in my basement that my children kept track of their growth spurts and you can still see the shaky little lines and poorly written names in faded Sharpie. There is one dead rabbit and a host of dead gerbils buried in my backyard and the elementary school that the kids attended is visible from my bedroom window. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I would, however, enjoy walking my grandchildren to the park without worry of a contact high, a drive-by shooting, or a RuPaul style mugging… but I guess, hope springs eternal!